


with your heart in your throat

by jonphaedrus



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Chronic Illness, M/M, kinkmeme fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 03:07:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9364868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonphaedrus/pseuds/jonphaedrus
Summary: Glad because he sees Regis sway, his face grey and pale, staggering, and if he had been in his council robes he could never make it across the stage to catch the younger man as his grip on the wood falters, his knuckles gone white, his mouth slack.





	

Clarus is glad he’d worn his suit rather than his Council robes that day, for the press conference. He's glad that he had been standing fairly nearby the podium, glad he’d been watching Regis’ face and not the prompter or the crowd, glad, glad, glad, glad.

_Glad_ because he sees Regis sway, his face grey and pale, staggering, and if he had been in his council robes he could never make it across the stage to catch the younger man as his grip on the wood falters, his knuckles gone white, his mouth slack. “Your Majesty!” Clarus calls, but Regis doesn’t respond, his eyes rolled partway up, his breath shallow. Clarus drops to his knees, getting his arms around the other man, and he waves to get the cameras off, to get the cameras away.

There is chaos around them, and Cor has taken control of the situation, always the man to have in a moment of crisis, as Clarus loosens Regis’ collar, his belt, lifts his legs above his head, shields the man with his body from the crowds and the civilians, focused entirely on the King. He’s breathing, but still pale and weak, unconscious, and it takes longer than Clarus would like for Regis’ green eyes to flutter open, hazy and confused, his mouth still slack. “Reg?” Clarus asks, leaning forward, not coming too close to him, not wanting to disconcert him, as the King groans in pain, his narrow face twisted into agony. “Answer me, Sire. I need to know you’re with us.”

“Fuck,” Regis says, breathy, and Clarus relaxes, shoulders slumping.

 

 

Cor and Clarus together manage to clean up the mess of the press conference, and afterward Clarus carries the king to his rooms in the Citadel, Regis shaky and exhausted in his arms, head lolling against his shoulder. In his rooms, Clarus strips the younger man carefully, and Regis lets him without his usual complaints, too tired to be gruff, Clarus’ fingers gentle over the scars by his eye, the sagging skin around his chest where he’s losing weight.

“This is a mess,” Regis murmurs, as Clarus pulls a t-shirt over the other man’s head, one of his, loose on the King’s slender frame. “There’ll be a panic.”

“You’re all right,” Clarus replies, cupping his face, kneeling by his feet. He’s never felt as lost in his life as he has these past few years. He’s losing Regis, one inch at a time, and it’s nothing that Clarus can fight. He can’t do anything for Regis that makes a difference. He can only stand strong by him, through the slow decay. He smiles, although it is not one that comes easy to him. He smiles, because Regis needs it. “That's all that matters. We can deal with the rest later.”

Regis looks at him with this odd sort of look on his face, and it isn’t until later that Clarus realises that the face the other man wore was _regret_.


End file.
